


Hidden Hurts

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Regret, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime after Sherlock's return, John discovers one more secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden Hurts

The gun blast still echoed as John dropped to Sherlock’s side. “I’m here,“ he said calmly, already mentally calculating the damage even as red bloomed on Sherlock’s shirt. He reached for Sherlock’s buttons and found his hands batted away. “Don’t be ridiculous,” grumbled John, grabbing his wrists in one hand and yanking the shirt open with the other.

John’s eyes went wide as he saw the many scars twisting across his friend’s chest. He knew about the nightmares, the things Sherlock would not say. But not this. Sherlock turned his head and closed his eyes, but whether it was from pain, shame, or something else, John couldn’t say.

Focusing on the task at hand, John dropped Sherlock’s wrists and looked at the wound. Mostly a graze, by the looks of things, but it would still need to be tended to. “Lestrade will be here any minute,” he told Sherlock, peeling off his own shirt to try and staunch the bleeding.

Sherlock said nothing, which was far more worrying than the wound. He heard the sound of running feet and quickly tugged Sherlock’s shirt closed, buttoning it to keep it that way. “Is he hurt?” asked Lestrade.

“Yes,” said John shortly, “But I can take care of him.” Taking a bandage from one of the police he hastily bandaged the wound while showing a minimum of skin. He bent down and wrapped one of Sherlock’s arms around his neck, helping him up.

“I’ll drive you,” said Lestrade as John helped Sherlock up and out of the warehouse.

Lestrade got them to the flat in record time. John refused his help with Sherlock up the stairs, assuring him that he could handle Sherlock and it was mostly a flesh wound and yes of course he’d get him to the hospital if he really needed it.

It was a struggle, and Sherlock barely helped, but John got him up to the flat and lay him out on the rug before running up to fetch the medical kit and washing his hands. He was steady as he worked, stitching up his flatmate. He’d have to call Mary and tell her was staying over. Again. At least she always understood. He finished up and put a fresh bandage over the wound. Sherlock was still silent, just the movement of his chest showing him still alive.

John put up his bag, texted Mary and washed himself before grabbing clean shirts for himself and Sherlock and going back to the rug. “You’ll be all right, Sherlock,” he said soothingly. “Come on, let’s get you in something clean.” He tugged Sherlock to a seat and started peeling him out of his bloodstained shirt.

Sherlock jerked away from his arms and snatched the shirt from his hand. Turned away, John could see more scars on his back. Someone had whipped him, by the looks of it. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder. “Do not ask.”

John shook his head and got to his feet. “Soldiers don’t generally ask one another about their scars,” he said, going to put the kettle on.

Sherlock got the shirt on and unsteadily made his way to the couch. He reached for the violin, but dropped his hand instead. John returned with tea and took his old chair. Sherlock peered into the cup as if it held all the answers. “Nothing helps,” he said at last.

“The nightmares?” asked John. “You were the only thing that ever helped me.”

“And then I left you.” Sherlock’s words were pointed, calculated to sting.

John ignored the barb. “You said you were gone for a reason. We’ve moved past that.” He remembered taking a swing when the man had shown up out of the blue.

“You don’t want to know?” asked Sherlock.

“You’ll tell me when and if you want to, not a moment sooner,” said John patiently.

"Your therapist has done you some good," sneered Sherlock, steepling his fingers.

"I already told Mary I'm spending the night. You won't be rid of me that easy.”

Sherlock scoffed and sipped his tea with a trembling hand. John eyed him, then moved to sit next to him on the couch.

Sniffing, Sherlock inched away, wincing as he tugged on the wound. “You should lie down,” said John.

Sherlock set down the tea. He started to protest, but saw the look on John’s face. Carefully as he could he curled up on the end of the couch,as if afraid to touch. Biting back a sigh, John tugged him over until his head was in John’s lap and he could gently pet the curls.

Gradually Sherlock’s breathing became shallower and John felt him let go as he passed into sleep. Settling in, he closed his own eyes. Before he could fall asleep, Sherlock whimpered. John’s hand was instantly in his hair again, soothing. “You’re safe, Sherlock.”

Sherlock flinched. “Keep John safe,” he muttered.

John’s hand stilled as he watched him. He took a few shallow breaths. “I know, Sherlock,” he said softly. “I know you did it for me. I…sometimes I’m sorry I didn’t wait…But you were dead.”

Sherlock whimpered and buried his head deeper into John’s lap. Closing his eyes against threatening tears, John went back to carding his hair. “You’re the bravest man I’ve ever known,” he said gently. “It’ll take time, but you’ll get over this too.” Sherlock seemed to slip into quieter dreams. Gradually John’s head dropped and he found his own sleep.

He woke with a start in the morning, lying out on the couch, the sound of the kettle going off in the kitchen. Sherlock could be seen slowly walking around the kitchen. John stretched, figuring Sherlock must have pushed him over sometime. Still a crick in his neck though.”Let me take a look at that wound,” he said as he got up and crossed to Sherlock’s side.

“It is fine,” said Sherlock, handing him a cup of tea.

John took it and sat down. Too much milk in it, but that was okay. “After breakfast then.”

“If you insist,” he said setting a plate in front of John.

“I’m your doctor, of course I insist.”

The faintest ghost of a smile passed Sherlock’s lips as he sat down across from John. It reminded him sharply of the old days. But then there was his wedding ring glinting in the morning light and the fact that Sherlock had actually fixed tea and breakfast. He ate quickly, then checked the injury in the morning light. “Take it easy for a few days, all right?”

“I will endeavour to follow doctor’s orders,” said Sherlock with a tone that indicated he would do no such thing.

John sighed. “If I have to get you admitted to the hospital, I will. But I think you can manage on your own. Mrs. Hudson will keep an eye on you.”

Sherlock gave a small nod, acknowledgement that John would be going home shortly, that home was no longer here. But home would always be here, John knew that. So did Mary, and it was one of the many reasons why he loved her. Finishing, he went to collect his coat. “I’ll be back to check on you this afternoon.”

“Of course. Give Mary my love.”

John was surprised and turned to look at him, but Sherlock had already pulled out a laptop to work. Sighing, he went down the stairs and out into the cool London street.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by a conversation on tumblr with princesscocoa.
> 
> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


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